Wisdom
by Alanna
Summary: Minerva McGonagall has always wanted to be a teacher. But when she receives a strange offer from Dumbledore, her life suddenly takes a different path. Set during WWII.
1. An Offer

****

Wisdom

Chapter One: An Offer

__

Far and away the best prize that life has to offer is the chance to work hard at work worth doing.   
--Theodore Roosevelt

**__**

A/N: I'd like to dedicate this chapter to all of the Quillers who have given me so much support over the past few weeks. You ROX.

And, as always, many thanks to Yolanda for a wonderful beta job.

This story was beta-read at The Sugar Quill, the KEWLest HP fanfic site out there! www.sugarquill.net

The Ministry of Magic office was brilliant white and chillingly impersonal. The blank walls were interrupted by the single portrait of an austere man in medieval dress, who blinked solemnly down from his frame. The carpet was a dull, unassuming gray; there were no windows.

In the center of the room was a table. At the table was a chair. And in that chair sat a wizard. He sat and tapped his toe, he stroked his flowing beard, and he waited.

Presently, Minerva McGonagall entered the cold and unfeeling room, her burgundy robes bringing a shocking touch of color, her head held high, her black hair bobbed and held severely in place. Suddenly a smile crossed her face, and she walked to the table. 

"Professor Dumbledore!" Her delighted words echoed around the small room. "When they said someone wanted me here, they didn't mention it was you!"

"It's nice to see you again, Miss McGonagall. But I'm not here just to pay a call. Sit down."

She sat across from him. "Professor, if I may pry, why are you here? And what do you want with me?"

Dumbledore sighed, peering at her through his half-moon glasses. "Minerva, you're a smart young woman. I'm sure you're aware of the current situation in Britain, in both our world and in that of the Muggles." 

Minerva McGonagall nodded. 

"We are losing the fight against Grindelwald and his followers, the Morsdrodars. We have reason to believe that he has allied himself with the Muggle Hitler and is directing him to persecute Muggle-born witches and wizards in Germany. Together, they will be unstoppable. We are losing the war badly. We need help. We need _you_, Minerva."

"I've told you, Professor," the young woman replied, "I can't. I'm going to be a teacher."

"Hear me out, young lady. If someone doesn't do something soon -- if the Dark war doesn't take a turn for the better -- then we are lost. You are the most promising Transfiguration student I've seen in years, and you were a formidable force in Defense Against the Dark Arts as well. You're one of the most talented witches to attend Hogwarts in some time. And you are very competent when it comes to the practical application of method. I am fully aware that you will find a teaching job, and presumably sooner, rather than later. But not now. We need you to help us, Minerva."

Minerva shook her head. "Professor, I'm sorry. You'll have to find someone else. I know there are no openings at Hogwarts, but I've been applying in Ireland and America. I just can't, but I'm sure someone else would... Please. Just try to understand."

The older man sighed and looked resigned. "I'm listening, Minerva."

"Professor, you know about what happened to my mother." Albus Dumbledore nodded. "I've wanted to teach since I was five years old and went to school for the first time. I've wanted to teach forever, even when I thought I was just a Muggle. Over the years, I've wanted to do other things -- when I was twelve I wanted to be a nurse at St. Mungo's; when I was thirteen I wanted to be the first woman Minister of Magic. But even then, I knew that I was going to teach. It just played second fiddle to my other dreams. And then, when I was a fourth-year, I had Professor Leale, and after that -- I knew." Her voice grew slightly hysterical. "I just can't imagine myself doing anything else..."

"There is a time for that," Dumbledore replied, his voice still calm, but his eyes like steel. "There will be a time for you to live that dream, Miss McGonagall. But it is not now! Not now, do you understand? We need you. We need a young person with your energy, with your knowledge of Transfiguration, with your abilities -- yes, with your expertise! We have enough trained Aurors; we're never going to need any more trained Aurors if this keeps up! We need a spy. We need an Animagus."

Ah, that had captured her attention. Minerva leaned forward, suddenly interested. "An Animagus?" 

"Yes," Dumbledore said with a smile, "an Animagus. You and I both know that you are perfectly suited to that sort of work."

"No. I won't do it. You can't bribe me like that; I won't." Minerva set her chin stubbornly, her mouth a thin line.

"Minerva." Dumbledore's voice was quiet and grave. "If things continue as they are, there will not be a Hogwarts at which you can teach." He was silent for a moment, letting that sink in, and then continued, "You do understand, don't you, Miss McGonagall?"

"Yes," the young woman said heavily. "Yes, I understand. What do you want me to do?"

To his credit, Dumbledore did not gloat. "Excellent. I can't give you any more information until you've passed tests -- required, the routine, you know. I will see you again, once your credentials have been cleared. Be patient. It might take some time.

"And now I must hurry back to Hogwarts; I have been gone long enough. I thank you, Miss McGonagall, for your time. I promise you won't regret your decision." And with that, he strode briskly from the room. Minerva followed him through the door, then watched from the hallway window until he left the Ministry grounds and Disapparated -- presumably returning to Hogwarts. Minerva walked back to her small secretarial office with her thoughts far, far away. Had she made a mistake, deferring her lifelong dream? But she heard Dumbledore's voice saying, "I promise you won't regret your decision," and somehow, she thought she wouldn't. 

* * *

Minerva waited anxiously for a week -- which became a fortnight -- which slowly but relentlessly evolved into a month.

Over the past two years, she had become accustomed to scrutinizing every owl, hoping that it brought acceptance of her teaching application and a release from her job as a Ministry secretary. Now, however, she watched for a different reason, hoping that each might bring word from Dumbledore and his mysterious group. But each owl was always winging its way to London for a different reason, and Minerva began to wonder if Dumbledore's offer had been genuine.

Finally, three days before Halloween, she was shoving papers and quills into her bag before leaving when a sharp knock sounded at the door. "Come in," she called, grabbing her cloak and closing a drawer in her desk.

The door opened to reveal a tall, thin woman with brown hair and a terse expression. "Minerva McGonagall? I am Janice Perkins. Dumbledore sent me. Come this way." And, without waiting for a reply, she turned away and walked down the corridor.

Minerva bewilderedly followed her.

Janice Perkins led her through twisting halls and in and out of small rooms until Minerva was completely confused. Finally, she stopped before a large suit of armor.

"Password?" it inquired creakily.

"Prometheus," replied Janice, pronouncing each syllable carefully. The suit stepped to the side, revealing a small chamber. Two overstuffed armchairs and a table left little room to stand, and a fire crackled merrily in one corner. 

"Have a seat," Janice said frostily, grabbing a folder from the table, her manicured nails clicking "We need to check your records, and the quicker we finish this, the better. Stop me to correct any mistakes."

"You are Minerva Elizabeth McGonagall, born August 29, 1923 in Muggleswick, England, to Ewan McGonagall, Muggle, and Silvia Gladstone, witch?" Minerva nodded, waiting for the flicker of recognition that usually accompanied her mother's name, but Janice's face remained a cultivated deadpan and her voice professional and impassive. "You have one brother, Benjamin, a Muggle; your wand is cherrywood and phoenix feather, eleven inches; you are five feet, seven inches tall and weigh one hundred and thirty-six pounds. You attended Hogwarts from 1934 through 1941, where you were in Gryffindor house. You were eventually the Gryffindor prefect and were Head Girl in your seventh year. For the past two years, you have been working as the assistant secretary to Anthony Griswold, sub-department head for the Department of Mysteries. Is all of that correct?"

"Yes."

"Good. Open your mouth." Janice extracted a vial of clear liquid from a drawer in the table and placed a drop on Minerva's tongue. "Was all the information in your records correct?"

"Yes." Minerva's mouth opened of its own accord and the word came out. She realized that the liquid must be a sort of truth potion.

"Do you, or have you ever, worked for Grindelwald and his Morsdrodars, or any other group that breaks ethical and moral codes and endangers wizardkind?"

"No." Being under a truth potion was eerie. She didn't even have to wait for the question to register in her mind before her mouth opened by itself and responded.

"Do you plan to ever work for such a group?"

"No."

"Do you plan to remain true to Dumbledore and our Order?"

"Yes."

"Good." Janice removed a mug of strong-smelling liquid from a cupboard and handed it to Minerva. "You're clear. Drink this -- it's an antidote for the potion -- then come with me." She exited into the hallway, walked a few paces, then whispered a password to a portrait of Godric Gryffindor. It opened to reveal Professor Dumbledore sitting at a desk in a small stone room. "Professor Dumbledore, sir? She's cleared. Passed the Veritaserum test."

"With flying colors, I presume, just as she passed all her tests at Hogwarts." Dumbledore smiled and led the two into a spacious area filled with armchairs and diagrams. At the end of a large table sat Dumbledore's phoenix, which immediately flew over to Minerva. She smiled; she remembered Fawkes from her stint as Head Girl. "Sit down, Minerva, and I will endeavor to explain our little organization. You won't know of all of it, of course. The less you know, the less you can be forced to tell." Minerva nodded; that made sense. "But, with that behind us, we are the Order of the Phoenix. As you know, the phoenix bursts into flames when its body begins to fail -- then rises again from the ashes. Like the phoenix, we rise from the ashes, usually the ashes of death and destruction, when we are needed.

"The Order of the Phoenix is old and distinguished. Merlin's phoenix Prometheus was the inspiration for the beginning. Wizards who were especially honored in their fight against Dark magic received one of Prometheus's feathers as their prize. The Order of the Phoenix quickly became the highest honor for wizardkind -- much like our Order of Merlin today. The witches and wizards in the Order of the Phoenix banded together to fight darkness and oppression throughout time. As the Order of Merlin came into greater use, and the Order of the Phoenix was quickly forgotten, it became the name for an elite group fighting for Light magic, rather than an honor bestowed upon extraordinary witches and wizards. At the time, it was made mostly of Aurors -- or Luminaries, as they were called -- and whenever a Dark wizard began his rise, the Order would be there to fight, helping to achieve a victory for the good witches and wizards.

"We are Aurors; we are spies; but we are also researchers and Seers and Potions experts and accountants and journalists and lawyers. We have Magical Creatures experts in our ranks, alongside the Herbologists and Quidditch players. The Order is a worldwide and vast organization; I believe there are about two hundred of us..."

"Two hundred and seventeen, counting Minerva," Janice corrected.

"Yes, thank you, Janice. Two hundred and seventeen, of us about seventy-five in Britain -- I don't need the exact figure, Janice -- working against Grindelwald. 

"And now, I presume, you have questions?"

Minerva's head was spinning with them. "Does the Ministry know about the -- the Order?"

"Yes. They help us when they can. It depends on the situation."

"Will I keep my job, then?"

"No, we'll pay you. Janice will work out the contracts later this week."

"And -- Professor -- how can you do this, and teach at Hogwarts at the same time?"

"One of the other professors teaches classes when I can't make it. Times are chaotic, and mysterious absences are not as unusual as they were during your time at Hogwarts. The students know a little -- they know that I'm doing something in the fight against Grindelwald, but nothing else. Although I would like to trust them all implicitly, I fear that I cannot.

"Which brings me to the last thing I must tell you. You have heard, I presume, about the attacks at Hogwarts last year?"

"Yes, I heard some. My friend, Tessa Clowbridge, has a brother who's a fifth-year this year. She told me about it. Tragic."

"Very. So you know, then, that Rubeus Hagrid was expelled for opening the Chamber of Secrets?" Dumbledore inquired, gazing at her intently.

Minerva's eyes opened wide. "No... I hadn't heard. But Rubeus? He's a Gryffindor! I never thought -- I mean, it couldn't be him -- he wouldn't..."

"You knew him?" asked Dumbledore.

"A little. He was in my House, and I had to know who all the students were, as a Prefect. I tutored him in Transfiguration once or twice. But -- he couldn't have done it, he just couldn't have --" She stopped. Rubeus, a large bear of a boy, outshone everyone in Care of Magical Creatures. He meant well, but he sometimes showed a serious lack of common sense. Could he have released the monster by mistake? "It just doesn't seem possible."

"Yes, I thought so, too. But people were terrified -- did you hear that Headmaster Dippet was considering closing the school? -- and they wanted a scapegoat. If you didn't know Rubeus well, he would seem a likely suspect."

"Who turned him in?" Minerva asked suddenly. 

"Tom Riddle, now a sixth year-Slytherin House. Probably the most brilliant student I have ever taught; he'll surely be Head Boy next year." 

"And you think..." 

"Just keep your eyes open. And now, let me introduce to some of your co-workers. I think there are still a few flitting around. Arabella? Are you here? Anthony? Pandora? Anyone else?" 

Several people walked into the room. "Ah. You've already met Janice -- she's our bookkeeper and secretary, and our Arithmancy expert. This is Mrs. Arabella Figg." Arabella was a short, smiling witch, about ten years older than Minerva. Her face was freckled, and her green eyes sparkled behind glasses. "She's our Charms specialist, along with being our housekeeper. We're a little short on people, I'm afraid. Arabella's going to attempt the Animagus transformation as well. I hope you two can work together." 

Minerva smiled. "Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise!" Arabella gripped Minerva's hand in a firm handshake.

Dumbledore gestured next to an ancient man standing beside him. "Anthony Ollivander, our Herbology expert. His cousin, Rodney, carries on the family business at Ollivander's wands. Anthony procures the wood. You know, it must be taken from a live tree to be effective." 

"Minerva." Anthony gave her a penetrating stare. "An apt name."

"My mother loved Muggle mythology."

"Use your wisdom well." He turned his craggy face away, and Minerva involuntarily shivered. Mr. Ollivander was as uncanny as his cousin, if not worse.

"Pandora's on assignment," Arabella said, "but Bilius and Louise are here." 

"Yes, I see. This is Bilius Weasley, expert on Divination; and his wife Louise, a mediwitch and our liaison with St. Mungo's. She's also our Muggle Studies expert." Bilius was a tall young man with a shock of brilliant red hair. By contrast, Louise was a small, mousy woman with a quick and ready smile. Pleasantries and handshakes were exchanged.

"All right, I'd best head back to Hogwarts. One last thing." He extracted a box from his robes. "This is your kit, Minerva. Keep it with you always." Minerva studied it curiously. The "kit" was small and tin, with a fiery feather engraved on the top. "It's a seven-lock box. Have you ever heard of those?"

"Each layer is unlocked with a different key," she recited, "and each layer can hold different things. The seventh and last lock usually holds the most precious or dangerous materials, and sometimes needs a spell, password, or special key to unlock it."

"Excellent. In our case, you open the last layer with a password -- it's 'luminary,' by the way -- and a key. The keys are carved from dragon scales. You can never duplicate a dragon scale key. The first layer of the box contains basic equipment -- medicines and so forth. Here are the keys; go ahead and open the second layer." Inside it were a Sneakoscope, a small mirror, a map, and a golden ring. "I'll not trouble you by showing you everything in all the layers, but it is you need to learn the uses of the ring before you leave tonight.

"This -- the headquarters for the Order -- is Unplottable. You can't find it on any map, and you can't even see it if you don't know it's here, much like Hogwarts, or the Leaky Cauldron. I know that some parts of the Ministry often have Apparation wards set up as well. It's nearly impossible to find the Headquarters by going through the passageways, so we have devised this method. This ring is a substitute for Apparation or Portkeys. If you twist it clockwise, while saying _Appareo continuo_ -- it's a derivative of the spell for Apparation -- you will automatically be transported here. Once you put the ring on, it will mold to your finger. You can only remove it with a special key, and the key is only available under certain circumstances. The ring will be on your finger, if not for eternity, then at least for a long while.

"Finally, you have to pass an examination to become a member of the Order. You will take it in about a month; we will help you to prepare. It is challenging, but I am sure you will pass.

"And now I think I'll let you go home -- unless you'd like to join us for dinner? No? Well, I'll see you here at eight o'clock sharp on Monday morning. I suggest that you read the Order manual thoroughly. It's in the third layer of your kit. The door is through the entryway and to the left. Goodbye, Minerva." The other members echoed his farewells as Minerva waved, pulled her cloak around her shoulders, and stepped out into the chilly October air. 

She chose to walk home rather than Apparate. The stars shone clearly in the dark London sky, and trees were dropping their leaves onto her head. It was difficult for her to believe that only the night before, she had crossed the crowded street onto the Ministry Apparation grounds and appeared instantly in her flat. That was during the time of her boring secretarial job, months and months of waiting. Before she'd waited for Dumbledore's message, she'd waited to hear from schools around the world, hoping that someone would offer her a teaching job. Now she was about to begin a new life, a life of intrigue, mystery, and danger. 

Minerva felt a thrill run up her spine at the prospect of excitement. She'd never really known danger. She had been born after the Great Muggle War; her mother's murder had happened miles away from their home in Muggleswick, and the family's subsequent move to Glasgow had sheltered the children from the intrigue surrounding the killing. Her years at Hogwarts had been enjoyable but tame, with the most dangerous occurrences being the occasional prank by a Slytherin or an especially dirty game of Quidditch.

Now, more than ever, she was convinced that she'd made the right choice. More than anything, Minerva had always wanted to be useful. She'd wanted to change things by teaching, something that her friend Amelia had never understood. Amelia Tabor, an impetuous Gryffindor girl with long black ringlets, had wanted to change the world as well -- but she wanted to do so by being the Minister of Magic; by developing a breakthrough in Potions or Charms; not to change the world by molding the minds of those who might one day change it. 

Ironically, Amelia was currently working for the Floo Regulation Panel, while Minerva was going to fight Grindelwald. Moving briskly to keep herself warm, she hurried back to her flat, charged with a strange exhilaration at the thought of the days ahead. She felt young and inexperienced already, but she looked forward to learning everything. And then -- she could become an Animagus, working tirelessly against the Morsdrodars. It would be thrilling; it would be dangerous. She could hardly wait.

* * *

By the end of the next week, Minerva had a tremendous headache. She'd learned so much that she thought her brain would explode. She'd almost memorized the entire handbook, from the Prologue (A History of the Order of the Phoenix) to Chapter Fifteen (What To Do If You Are Captured) to the Afterward (Where will the Order go Next?) and the Appendix (A Selective List of the Order's Passwords, Portkeys, and Persona). She and Arabella had spent hours in the Grand Ministry Library, the largest collection of books in Britain, learning arcane spells and warfare tactics. Arabella was studying Muggle history as part of her latest project, and having trouble with it.

"I just don't understand the Great Muggle War!" she finally exclaimed in exasperation. "What on Earth were they fighting about?"

"Here, I'll show you." Minerva began explaining rapidly, doodling diagrams on a sheet of paper. "There. Is that better?"

"Yes, I think," Arabella replied dubiously. "Where'd you learn all this, anyway? What have they done to the Muggle Studies curriculum at Hogwarts? I was there during the Great Muggle War, and we didn't learn any of this stuff!"

"I learned it in Muggle school," Minerva explained. "And my dad fought in the Great War, so I had to hear about it all the time." She rolled her eyes. "Every family dinner it was 'Tell us your stories, Ewan!' I think I could probably recite them."

"You went to Muggle school? But -- I would have thought -- Silvia Gladstone's daughter..."

"Who's Silvia Gladstone's daughter?" an obnoxious voice yelled from the shelves behind them. 

Arabella rolled her eyes. "Anita Brackleburg," she muttered. "She's one of our top spies, but she always forgets that she's not supposed to get information out of us. She was probably eavesdropping. I'll fend her off somehow."

"No, I don't mind," Minerva reassured her. "I am!" she called.

Anita Brackleburg was a tall, slender woman with a heap of black hair. "Really? What was it like? Why don't you tell me the story?"

Minerva laughed a strained laugh. "You probably know the story better than I do. I was only four, after all." Anita looked questioningly at Arabella. 

"No, I haven't pumped her for information!" Arabella replied irritably. 

"Fine." Anita sniffed. "Well, I'm sure it's an interesting perspective to hear the story from her."

Minerva sighed and began. "I didn't even know most of this until I went to Hogwarts. But my mum worked with the Experimental Potions department at the Ministry -- that's the branch in Edinburgh. We lived in a little village, Muggleswick, about a hundred miles away. Well, anyway, mum was going outside at the office for some reason --"

"Getting Potions ingredients for the Werewolf Aid Potion she was working on," Anita corrected. "Everyone thought it was a pipe dream, but she proved it could be done. We're probably years and years away from perfecting it, but --"

"Yes," Minerva continued hurriedly, "to get Potions ingredients. And this lunatic --"

"Actually, he was an insane anarchist. Alexander Burmont. He'd been hospitalized at Glasgow General Magical Hospital for years."

"Anyway, Alexander Burmont had a vengeance against the Ministry," Minerva said loudly. "And he managed to make it from the hospital to the nearest Ministry, which happened to be the Edinburgh one, and attacked the first witch he saw there, who happened to be my mum. He killed her."

"They both Stunned each other at the same time, but she hit her head on the pavement and died instantly, you mean," Anita corrected. "And Silvia was given the Order of Merlin, Third Class posthumously for her groundbreaking work with Potions." 

Minerva sighed. "I told you that you know the story better than I do."

"Yes, but what happened next?" Anita asked anxiously. "What happened to you? Do you have mental scars?" She scrutinized Minerva closely. 

"My father packed my little brother -- he was two -- and me -- I was four -- off to Glasgow to be near his Muggle family. I always knew my mum was a witch, but no one ever believed me if I told them, so I just forgot about it. My dad let me go to Hogwarts when I got the letter."

"Oh." Anita sounded disappointed. "Well, I suppose it's still fascinating."

"My mum's trunk is still in my dad's attic," Minerva offered helpfully. "If I run across anything new, I'll tell you."

"Thanks." Anita picked up A History of Magical Warfare Tactics and walked off. "See you two later. Good luck with the work."

Arabella laughed. "You poor thing. She'll be prying into your life all the time now -- dog's names, cat's name, mother's aunt's name, last thing she cooked... Anita's awfully harmless really -- just curious -- and she's an excellent spy, but I keep telling David -- that's my husband -- to just offer her a job at the Prophet and get her out of our hair!" She scowled down at her book. "Now who was the Archduke Whatchamacallit again?"

"_Expecto Patronum_," Minerva muttered in reply. "_Expecto Patronum, Expecto Patronum_. I think I can remember how to do this. D'you think Grindelwald has an army of Dementors and Lethifolds or something?"

"Dementors, no. The Ministry keeps them all under close watch. We don't know about Lethifolds, though. He could have them under the Imperius curse, commanding them to hurt his enemies…. Anything's possible." Arabella shivered. "We're going to be spies, remember, not Aurors. We shouldn't have to face those things."

"You trained as an Auror, though, didn't you?" asked Minerva, now trying to learn the Apertio charm ("for the Opening of Walls and other such Things which may be Necessary") from an eighteenth-century book.

"Yes. I was with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement until Dumbledore tracked me down, and that's where I'll probably go once this is over. But because I liked Charms and such, he thought I'd be a better Animagus." 

"So you're going to do this once -- once we've won?"

"Yes, of course. It's all I've ever really liked to do. Aren't you staying afterwards?"

"No. I'm going to teach," Minerva said firmly. "If I survive the Order exam, that is -- even the NEWTs weren't this bad!"

"It's hard at first," Arabella replied sympathetically. "Just wait until we start the Animagus research! I've heard it's terrible. We could always skive off and go to Diagon Alley this afternoon," she suggested. "Oh, don't look at me like that, Minerva! We'll stay here and work." Minerva had pursed her lips and looked sternly at Arabella. It was a look her students would one day learn to dread. "You'll be a great teacher, I think!" 

Minerva laughed good-naturedly.

* * *

As the weeks progressed, Minerva crammed her head with knowledge. She could open locked doors, find secret chambers, resist most curses, kill a Lethifold, foil a Sphinx, drive back a Dementor. She honed her Transfiguration skills, staying up late into the night practicing human-animal transformations. She learned about magical artifacts until she could see in a Foe-Glass, travel with a Time-Turner, and befuddle a Moving Door. She practiced flying and Apparating; invisibility and Portkey creating; because "a true Auror is always prepared. Like the Phoenix, you should rise to the occasion (Order handbook, page 6)." 

She also met many of her fellow Aurors. Ermitrude Green was a short witch with narrow fingers like chicken bones and an unabashed passion for Quodpot. Jackson Elliot, who sounded like his name was backwards, was small and lithe, with elfin features and a quick, lopsided smile. Dwayne Jones, an American member, was staggeringly tall with broad shoulders and a deep, stentorian voice. (When he was transferred back to the States, owls bearing loving epistles pursued him. Minerva, however, scorned such activities.) Celia Englewood was tiny, quick, and sparkling, cherishing Muggle movies and possessing a quirky sense of humor. Everyone and everything was new and delightful to Minerva, who had always pictured Aurors as uniformly tall and mysterious, and was remotely surprised to find that they were not. 

She was equally surprised to learn that not all Aurors were as pleasant and smiling as Arabella, or as easygoing as Louise. Rowena Ward pompously announced that she was named after a Hogwarts founder; Pernicia Grind's constant, biting sarcasm endeared her to no one. But overall, Minerva found the work fascinating and her co-workers pleasant.

Her studies could be almost too fascinating; she was beginning to feel overworked. Minerva knew by now that she was the youngest member of the Order, and she felt that she had tremendous expectations to live up to. 

"Minerva, do you want to eat at the Leaky Cauldron with us?" Bilius Weasley asked one day as he left. "Everyone's going."

"I'm really sorry, Bill -- I just can't." She glanced at the growing pile of books with dismay. "I take the exam in two weeks -- I still have to finish Encyclopedia of Dark Magic and I haven't even **started** Twelve Essential Auror Artifacts!"

Bill frowned. "Too much work clouds the Inner Eye, you know. You need a break."

Minerva shrugged ambiguously, waited until he was gone, the muttered, "Inner Eyes. What medieval rubbish." She hated to admit that Bilius was right, but she knew he was. She was collapsing, near tears, in the wee hours of the morning. She still had five charms to master before the examination. She felt hysterical, always on the verge of collapse; she would need a Time-Turner soon if she kept working at her present pace.

With that in mind, she went home and fell into bed, reading a novel instead of the Auror handbook. She felt vaguely ashamed of herself, but Minerva placed great value upon common sense. And although she valued hard work, bravery, and intelligence immediately behind it, she realized that working herself to death wouldn't do anyone any good. When she heard the clock strike midnight, for once it was only in her dreams.

* * *

The night before the exam, though, was a different matter. Minerva had taken many important tests during her time at Hogwarts: the Magical Aptitude Examination in her first year (abolished during her third, which she considered unfair); the OWLs in her fifth year; the NEWTs in her seventh; the Apparation test immediately after leaving Hogwarts. But failing _this_ test would mean a Memory Charm and a rejection into her drab job at the Ministry, filing papers from dawn till dusk. It would mean losing Arabella and Bilius; Louise and Celia; it would mean Janice's icy disapproval. And it would mean failing Professor Dumbledore. 

That would be the worst of all -- failing Dumbledore, her favorite teacher at Hogwarts, for whom she had the utmost respect. And in failing him, she would fail Professor Leale -- stern, loving Dorothy Leale, her role model, who had been killed by Dark wizards only four years ago.

Minerva breathed deeply, trying to remember Chapter Twenty-Three: Dueling Regulations and Helpful Hints. Panicky, she realized that she couldn't. She would fail; she would never become a member of the Order. She needed a Sedating Potion. No, that would make her oversleep. She needed to talk to her friend Theodora -- calm, unruffled Teddie. But even Teddie couldn't really understand what was going on here; that would mean telling Teddie everything, and she knew she couldn't do that. She needed to scream. No, that would wake the neighbors. She needed to take a flight.

With this last thought, Minerva sprang from her desk and grabbed a tartan cloak; then seized her Silver Arrow recklessly, knowing that it wasn't safe to fly over London during wartime -- and, astonishingly, not caring. She never took chances, except in Quidditch. She never acted on impulse; she believed in the beauty of long, solid thinking and planning. But that night, she followed her impulses and soared into the starry night.

Flying always cleared Minerva's mind. The moment she soared above the rooftops, carefully casting a spell of invisibility, everything seemed to fall into place. Looking down on the rooftops, her problems seemed small and inconsequential. She skimmed the treetops, keeping a sharp eye for German planes (_Rule #44: It is the duty of any witch or wizard who sees Muggles in danger to prevent the incident from occurring, if this can be accomplished without attracting undue attention_.) She flew aimlessly for nearly an hour, then turned east and flew until she could see the Thames as a thin black line on the horizon. 

When she returned home, Minerva could recite chapter twenty-three flawlessly.

She took the test the next morning, writing surely and quickly. In the afternoon, she fidgeted, Apparating from her flat to Diagon Alley and back. She finally gave up all pretense of occupation and transported herself to the Headquarters, appearing in Dumbledore's office. He smiled.

"Butterbeer, Minerva? I was just having some myself."

"No, thank you," she said stiffly, wondering whether she should attempt polite conversation. She found that she could not. "Have you graded my test?"

"Minerva, I have not. I have been teaching, then visited Hogsmeade with the students. However, I believe Alastor Moody, one of our Aurors, has. You may find him down the hall."

Alastor Moody was older than Minerva but younger than Dumbledore, although it was hard to guess his age because his face was marked with scars. Minerva shivered. If all Aurors looked like this, perhaps it wasn't too early to back out.

"Constant vigilance!" he roared, making her jump. "I could have done any number of things to you while you gaped! Never walk in on an unknown with your guard down! What do you want?"

"You were grading my test," Minerva said surely; although they weren't off to a fantastic start, she couldn't let Moody intimidate her. "I wanted to know if I could see my score."

"Yes, here it is." He handed her the paper, now covered in red ink. "I'm an Auror, not a bloody professor. Don't know what Dumbledore thinks he's doing. You did pretty well, McGonagall. Shame to waste that sort of talent on teaching." Minerva's back stiffened at his last words, wishing she could make someone realize that teaching _wouldn't_ be a waste of her abilities. As she turned to leave, he yelled, "Constant vigilance! Always remember that! Constant vigilance!" 

Once out of his office, she began to read the test. Moody hadn't written the score until the last page, and charmed it to appear only when she had read all of his corrections. He had dissected her answers, scribbling over them until they were almost invisible. As she carefully read each of his comments, her apprehension grew. Moody was obviously an incredible Auror. Did he think that she could be one too? 

Page upon page of red scrawls and her own neat black printing; finally (her heart was in her mouth), a large red percentage.

Ninety-four percent. And underneath it, in Moody's sprawling script, "Welcome to the Order. Excellent job." 

Minerva was exhilarated. She wanted to jump into the air and scream with joy, but she reminded herself that, as the youngest member of the Order, a certain amount of composure was required. Instead, she contented herself with a grin, carefully holding the paper as if it might explode, and walked to Dumbledore's office.

He twinkled at her. "Wonderfully done, Minerva. Alastor had high praise for you, and he rarely has a kind word for anyone. I, for one, am impressed. Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix."

"Thank you, Professor."

"No, that won't do -- we are co-workers now, after all. I believe you should call me Albus."

"Thank you, Albus, then." Fawkes trilled approvingly. "And, if I may ask, what should I do now? I mean, I've passed the test and everything -- should I keep reporting to you? Or go to someone else? I'm willing to do whatever you need --"

He cut her off. "Minerva, unless I am gravely mistaken, you are ready to become an Animagus."

Minerva could only nod and smile, her eyes wide with anticipation. She had begun her work at last.


	2. Crumpets with Churchill

****

Chapter Two

__

Crumpets with Churchill

****

A/N: Many thanks to Yolanda, for a wonderful beta job and for her great input on Churchill and Animagi; and to Silver Arrow, for laughing and sniffing at the right moments and agreeing with everything I said, even when I contradicted myself. I put a Silver Arrow reference in for you, dearie.

This chapter is dedicated to the other twelve members of Team Fidge and to my fellow DEANers, because they all ROX beyond belief. Thanks, everyone.

Minerva stopped before a tapestry in the middle of the thickly carpeted hallway. The man in the picture was reading a book, turning each page with a ripple of thread. She smiled for a moment, then whispered the password and watched it smoothly roll up in a shimmer of autumnal colors; revealing a large oak door. Carefully turning the bronze handle, she entered, breathing in the smell of thousands upon thousands of books.

She loved the Grand Ministry Library. As a full-fledged member of the Order of the Phoenix, Minerva had access to each of its five hundred and twenty-two rooms, some open only to a privileged few. The Grand Library contained the oldest, rarest, and most fascinating books in Britain -- perhaps in the world -- all stored in ebony bookcases adorned with ornate silver designs.

Elspeth Tome, the librarian, smiled when Minerva came in. She was seated at her desk, the enormous catalogue open in front of her; a fine-pointed quill was scratching over a fresh sheet of parchment inside it, recording the names of the newest books. "Good morning, Minerva," she called. "Arabella's already in the back. Let me know if you need any help."

Minerva waved back in greeting, then walked to the Animagi section (located between the gigantic Ancient Runes area and the somewhat smaller collection on the Appleby Arrows), and selected eight more books. In the spacious study room, Arabella was seated at a table directly below the enchanted skylight, systematically taking notes from _All About Animagi_. 

"Good news!" she called to Minerva. "Myrna Thorpe owled Dumbledore. She said we could start learning from her in a few months." She suddenly looked panicked. "We have to learn all of this in a few months?"

Minerva laughed. "I think if we just understand the _theory_, she'll teach us the actual transformation." Myrna Thorpe was one of the two living Animagi in Britain, and an old friend of Dumbledore's. He was trying to arrange to have her tutor the two Order members before they underwent the actual transformation. "Best get to work." She opened _The Animagus Transformation in Ninety-Seven Nearly Impossible Steps_.

"'The Animagus transformation is magic in its most difficult, advanced, and arcane form, involving Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, Arithmancy, and Divination, and should only be attempted by experienced wizards,'" she read. "'Few succeed at becoming an Animagus, and even the smallest mistake can prove fatal.' Oh, _that's_ encouraging." Arabella laughed.

"Oh, this is interesting. 'Just as the wand chooses the wizard, a person becomes the animal which best suits his or her personality.' What will they do if we become a tiger or a fish -- something that absolutely can't spy without being noticed?"

"We'd just better hope we don't," Arabella said grimly. "I'm not doing all this work for nothing. You know what would be horrible? A toad."

"An insect would be worse," Minerva said contemplatively. "I think I know a few snakes, myself. I wonder what I'll be?"

"Well, we'll find out, won't we?" asked Arabella. "That's later in the book -- there's some scrying and Divination to figure out our animal." 

Minerva snorted. "Divination. I know it's one of the oldest and most widely practiced magical arts, but -- honestly, what rubbish." 

Arabella gave a tolerant laugh. "Well, I'll take care of that part. You just do the Arithmancy."

"Mm." Minerva settled back into her book. Presently, Albus Dumbledore entered the room, walked to their table, and stopped before her with a small smile.

"Hello, Arabella -- Minerva. Work going well, I trust?"

"Yes, excellently."

"Good. Minerva, I have come to ask you for a favor. I need you to help me on a different assignment."

"A different assignment?" Arabella slammed _Being to Beast: Understanding Animagi_. "But -- she isn't to become an Animagus with me? You can't! I need her to work the Arithmancy equations!"

"No, no," Dumbledore answered in a reassuring tone. "This is a _special_ assignment; it can go on at the same time as your research. I believe that, although Minerva is the youngest and least experienced member of our Order, she is also the most apt for this task."

Minerva's curiosity was piqued. "What should I do?" she asked, picking up her quill once again.

"You know, of course, that in times of stress, the Muggle government and the Ministry of Magic work closely together under a condition of mutual aid." Minerva nodded in response. "The first thing we must do when a new Prime Minister is elected is to inform him of our world's existence -- not going into details, you understand; the poor man usually has enough on his hands already, but letting him know that we exist and wish to coexist peacefully. It's not a task I'd fancy; but it's already done in any case. Your job is to inform Mr. Churchill of the danger Grindelwald poses -- to his world as well as ours.

"Now I'd best be going -- good day!" He popped a Fizzing Whizbee into his mouth, smiled at the two women, and left.

Arabella stared at his retreating back incredulously. "That's _all_, then?"

Minerva laughed.

***

Over the next two weeks, Minerva read even more voraciously than usual. Dumbledore had acquired transcripts of Churchill's speeches, and she re-read them again and again, marveling at the power of the words, feeling that Churchill must be a very impressive man.

She continued to study with Arabella during the day, devouring stacks of books. They followed Minerva's plan and studied the theory of Animagi. As this magic might have been even harder to comprehend than the actual transformation itself, Minerva occasionally doubted the wisdom of her decision, but said nothing, instead poring over intense Arithmancy equations and splitting the binding on her copy of _Nearly Incomprehensible Magical Theory_, by Adalbert Waffling.

When she returned home, there were still more books -- both Muggle and wizard -- awaiting her: treatises on witch-burning; histories of past wars; newspapers from all over the globe. She carefully examined them, marking important passages and scribbling notes in the margins. 

Minerva would fall into bed at night feeling exhausted, but oddly satisfied. She enjoyed the work, enjoyed studying the advanced, difficult magical theories. She enjoyed working with Arabella and her fellow Order members; she enjoyed the mock debates she and Dumbledore had, preparing for her conversation with Churchill. Most of all, she relished the feeling that she was doing something useful, even vital.

The magnitude of her work sometimes frightened her, when she awoke at three o'clock in the morning -- what if she couldn't do it? What if she couldn't build a successful Ministry-Muggle connection? What if she, for the first time in her life, completely and utterly failed -- failed at the most important work she ever had the chance to do? But a small voice in the back of her head, the same one that had driven her to accept Dumbledore's offer, reassured her that she would not fail; and, just as she had before, she believed it.

***

The nights became colder and the days grayer as Minerva studied more intensely than ever. London rolled softly into winter. The war was dragging on, and her imminent meeting with Churchill began to seem increasingly important. Bombs fell on London nightly; she awoke more than once to the high, thin whine of the Muggle air-raid siren.

She was in no true danger: wizards had magical means of bomb detection that worked more efficiently than their Muggle counterparts. Dumbledore had erected wards around the Order headquarters, and the Ministry buildings were protected by an ancient magic. Minerva had taken care to shield her own apartment, but the ward-casting was exhausting and some nearby buildings still suffered damage.

The morning of December 12, the day Minerva was scheduled to meet Churchill, dawned bright and clear. Ice shone on the fragile twigs of the trees outside her window, and the ground was covered with a thick layer of frost. Before the sun had properly risen, she was rudely awakened by an owl tapping on her window. Waving her wand and shivering in the frigid air, she noticed that the letter bore a seal stamped with a single feather, the mark of a message from the Order.

_Minerva,_ it read, in Dumbledore's neat hand,

_You have an appointment with Winston Churchill at three o'clock this afternoon. See me immediately about the details._

A. D.

She read the letter twice, then refolded it and tapped it with her wand. The ink shimmered brightly for a second before the parchment burst into flames. After it was destroyed, the ashes collected themselves and flew, in a businesslike manner, to her wastebasket.

As she dressed, Minerva shivered, but there wasn't time to carefully readjust the heating charms -- and if she didn't take caution while setting them, her flat could catch fire. She chose to travel by Floo powder rather than Apparation to Diagon Alley -- it was perhaps thirty seconds slower, but she needed the warmth.

Dumbledore was waiting for her in the Leaky Cauldron, an enormous breakfast spread out before him. He waved and smiled at her; she sat down, notes before her, reviewing them one last time.

They spent the day in conference,; reviewing the subjects their conversation must follow -- what she could promise to do or not do, what she must refer to a higher Ministry official. At two-thirty, he led her to Gladrags Wizardwear. While the items at Madam Malkin's were of better quality, Dumbledore trusted the owners of Gladrags implicitly, and knew that they would raise nary an eyebrow at his unusual request.

Fifteen minutes later, she was modestly dressed in a smart suit and uncomfortable Muggle shoes, standing in an office at the London Ministry. Clouds had rolled in during breakfast, and the sky was heavy with snow -- she was glad to enter the building. While not as comfortable as a wizard building -- Muggle buildings never were -- the carpet was thick and the rooms were warm.

She cleared her throat. "Excuse me, sir. I'm Minerva McGonagall; I have an appointment with the Prime Minister."

"Ah, you'd be the representative from the Under-Ministry for Cultural Liaisons, then?" Minerva, wondering what on earth that was, only smiled. "You are anticipated. I shall contact the Minister." He pushed a button on his desk. "Minerva McGonagall, from the UMCL, sir."

"Send her in." The secretary gestured to a door. "He's waiting through there, ma'am."

Minerva thanked him and entered. The room was covered with a thick maroon carpet; two leather chairs faced each other in its center. Between them was a table holding a teapot and a plate of crumpets.

Winston Churchill was seated at a roll top desk, angrily scratching notes onto a typewritten paper. He turned, and she saw him properly. He was neither tall nor short, his skin pink as if from the sun; he had little hair and resembled, in facial features, a bulldog.

He poured and handed her a cup of tea, then spoke. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss McGonagall. Have a seat. What, exactly, is your business?"

"You know, sir, about the fact that there's a magical world within your own, don't you?" Churchill nodded and lit a cigar. "How much do you know about it, exactly?

"That there is another culture, almost identical to this, containing people who have special powers. That in other ways, that world resembles mine, with a stable government; schools; businesses…"

"Yes. And it also has its villains -- not only common criminals, but truly evil men. And they hold so much power already--"

"--that it is even worse than such a problem here, because the man has so much power already and so many more means at his disposal." Churchill's eyes, which had been inexpressive and almost bored at the beginning of the discussion, now were alive with interest.

"Exactly. You see, the Muggle world -- that's the non-magical world -- and the wizard world are tied more closely than most people realize. Life in each follows a certain pattern; they share times of prosperity and times of stress. When there is discontent in the Muggle world, it tends to bleed into ours, and vice versa." Churchill nodded.

"There is a man in Germany now. His name is Grindelwald, and, like your Hitler, he has come to power and is using fear as his greatest weapon. He is not running a government, but he is governing everyone by his terror." Minerva had rehearsed this speech, and, even to her, the words sounded smooth and powerful. "He hates Muggle-born witches and wizards -- so many of his sort do. He has made some sort of pact with Hitler. We believe that he has given him unnatural powers of persuasion, and the two are now so closely tied together that it will be impossible to have peace in both worlds without destroying both men. Grindelwald is also directing Hitler to torture Muggle-borns. Together, they will rule with absolute power over both communities all over Europe."

"What can we do to stop this?" asked Churchill, leaning forward with anticipation.

"Our Ministry of Magic, and the Order of the Phoenix -- my group -- are working against him in Britain. We catch as many people as we can. Some die, some talk, some are exonerated, some are imprisoned. We try to protect Muggles as much as we can. You are sending the thousands to the war, but we are losing many people to him as well. Every day, at least a hundred British witches and wizards die unnatural deaths."

"Why don't we join forces?" asked Churchill excitedly. "With magic on our side, and with our worlds united, we would have absolute victory."

Minerva shook her head regretfully. This was the question she hoped he would evade, the one she could not answer. "We couldn't. Our wars are not the same as yours. We do not fight battles, but rather underground. Our people are not used to it. It would cause strife in both worlds -- Muggles and wizards have not lived together in peace for millenniums, and the world is not ready for it yet. Your people would distrust us, or exploit us, trying to use our power for their good. There are some wizards, also, who have a deep loathing for Muggles. It would divide the wizarding world, or worse, bring Grindelwald's vengeance upon the Muggles. It would be a disaster."

"But we can't just stand by while our citizens -- of both worlds -- are dying," Churchill argued. "Surely there's something we can do." Minerva was silent. She had informed him of the risks; of the reasons why it would be an impossibility. "As long as we don't reveal to the enemy that we're doing so…" Again, Minerva said nothing. "But if they have the slightest knowledge that we're using more than our ordinary -- Muggle -- forces against them, then they would retaliate. And you say that they have these powers as well, and will not hesitate to use them for destruction?"

She nodded.

"Then our resistance -- might bring on something worse." He sighed. "I see your point," he finally said. "What _can_ we do?"

"Continue to work against Hitler -- that's the main thing. We will fight against Grindelwald. Study the dead carefully, for marks of magic -- here is a brief guide. Albus Dumbledore, our leader, will be in touch with your Cabinet over the course of the war."

"Do our colleagues in North America know about this? It must affect them as well."

"Wizarding problems like this are not so widespread -- they tend not to cross continents. But the Order of the Phoenix is all over the world, and our people are working with President Roosevelt in the same way." She placed her cup on the table and stood up.

"And now, I must be going. Albus will want to hear of the success of our conversation."

Churchill nodded. "It has been a pleasure -- and an education -- to meet you, Miss McGonagall. Take care."

"Likewise. Good day." Minerva shook his hand, looked carefully about, and Disapparated, leaving Churchill staring incredulously at the point where she had disappeared.

***

As the holidays approached, a thick blanket of snow fell on London, coating the Ministry buildings and muffling footfalls outside. The war raged on, but the Muggle and wizard governments had been successfully allied by Minerva's visit. Dumbledore and the Minister of Magic, Sir Robert Platte, visited Churchill and his Cabinet often.

Minerva and Arabella continued their studies, devouring books on Animagi. They met Myrna Thorpe, a shriveled old woman who was a robin Animagus. They met weekly at the Grand Library, Myrna drawing complicated diagrams and lecturing on the many parts of the transformation.

Under her watchful eye, they began to brew the _Mutaebestia_ potion. It was one of the most complicated part of the Animagus transformation, and one of the most vital. The potion suspended the loss of will that usually came with animal transformations, allowing people to keep their human instincts while in Animagus form. 

The _Mutaebestia_ had to be kept at a steady boil under an anti-evaporation charm for a week; then the ingredients were added, and it was allowed to simmer for a month, then set for another. The price of some necessities made Minerva wince, thankful that the Ministry was financing the transformation and supplying the ingredients.

The Potions research facility of the Ministry of Magic was one of the best-equipped in the world, but something always stopped Minerva from taking a Portkey to Edinburgh and fetching the supplies herself. Something about visiting the buildings that bore her mother's name in memoriam, where she had worked and loved and dreamed and died, always deterred her. They kept the potion itself in London, at the Order headquarters, and Arabella visited the Silvia Gladstone Potions Research Center herself and brought the ingredients home.

They worked with other aspects of the transformation as well. Minerva solved complicated Arithmancy equations, determining the parameters of the spells. Arabella honed her Divination abilities, preparing to scry for what creature she would become.

There was time for fun, too. Minerva sadly put her vintage Silver Arrow away in favor of an Order-issued Tinderblast. Order members occasionally met for Quidditch scrimmages, forcing Albus to referee once he was no longer needed at Hogwarts over the holidays. As Christmas drew nearer, she took shopping trips with Arabella, Louise, and Celia, spending her free time in Diagon Alley.

It was after one of these trips that she Flooed home, massaging her sore feet. It had been a long day at the Order -- they had added the twelfth crucial ingredient to the _Mutaebestia_, and Arabella had convinced her to go to Diagon Alley for dinner and shopping afterwards. Then it had been a long tread through the snow to the closest fireplace -- Minerva disliked Apparating with her arms full of packages. Just as she was removing her shoes and conjuring a cup of hot chocolate, a head appeared in her fireplace.

"Minerva," said Edith Bramley, her upstairs neighbor, "you might want to look outside your door -- there's a Muggle what-do-you-call-'em, postman, and he looks angry."

Minerva thanked Edith with a sigh and opened the door. A Muggle postman was indeed standing outside it, glaring angrily at her and suspiciously at her cup of cocoa. 

"Where'd you come from?" he demanded. "I been standing outside the door, knocking me hands raw for fifteen minutes, all these funny folk starin'. Took me two ruddy hours t'find the place--"

Minerva smoothly took the letter from his outstretched hand, twirled her wand, and whispered, "_Obliviate_." A glazed look slid over the man's face, and he smiled.

"Happy birthday t'yeh, then! Lucky to get cocoa, what with the war on."

Only after he had danced down the stairs, whistling an off-key polka, did Minerva look curiously at the letter. She hadn't received Muggle post in years. Her father was an erratic letter-writer at best; besides, he was used to wizard culture and always used owl. Her aunts had never fully approved of the wizarding world after her mother's death, and their messages, if any, were delivered with her father's letters. Her friends always sent owls -- although Amelia sometimes used a tame Diricalw -- or, if the message was urgent, firetalked.

Then, as she ripped the envelope open, she gasped with disbelief. The letter, written on notebook paper, began _"Dear Minnow…"_ in slanted, boyish script. Benny. A letter from her little brother, who had her father's Muggle blood -- who had never written her a letter since her very early days at Hogwarts. Three years her junior, he'd considered letter-writing _"girly"_ and left her father to convey the news from home. She hadn't even recognized his handwriting. Benny never wrote letters -- until now.

She felt almost apprehensive as she read the salutation again. _Minnow_. Her childhood name, back from the days when Silvia Gladstone had been alive and Benny's sluggish childhood tongue had mangled her name beyond recognition.

__

Dear Minnow,

Hey! Remember me, your brother, the one who doesn't write? Hope you're doing well with -- well -- whatever you're doing.

Min, I know you know about the war -- pretty hard to miss, even in your world. I worry about you in London, but I know you're a big girl and can take care of yourself better than Mugglish types like me can imagine.

Anyway, the war.

I've joined up. I've enlisted. I report to training next Monday morning, but don't try to come see me off -- Aunt Betty and Aunt Wanda will be crying over me enough without you there too. Then I'll go somewhere to fight.

I'll send my address to you. **Keep writing**.

__

I love you, Minnow! Don't worry about me.

Love, 

Benny

She read the letter over again, staring at the page in shock; then fell backwards onto the bed. Her legs wouldn't hold her anymore; she was too numb to cry. Benny -- her little brother -- was going who-knew-where, to face who-knew-what. Benny, who -- even as a child -- had disliked hurting anything. Benny, her adored little brother. Benny, who was too young to remember their mother and the days when he had teethed on Minerva's toy broomsticks and ate an entire bag of Noxious Nougats. 

Benny, who could die.

He could die. People died in wars. The monotonous refrain ran through her head, and a tear slipped silently down her cheek.

He wouldn't have to, she told herself. There were spells -- Shield Charms that could render people bulletproof, charms that made them immune to explosions. She could ignore Benny's message and go to send him off, and cast the spells -- No. He wouldn't want that. Benny was a great believer in fair play; he wouldn't want to go to war with an unfair advantage over the other fighters, even if it would save his life.

So she lay on her back on the bed and cried until she felt hollow, then slept deeply, his letter still crumpled in her hand.

**__**


	3. On Little Cat Feet

****

Chapter Three

__

On Little Cat Feet

****

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Yolanda, a ROXin' beta-reader and an even more ROXin' person, with my thanks for everything.

Minerva awoke the next morning at ten o'clock, sun streaming in her window. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling; then arose with a sigh and laid Benny's letter on her desk.

She would have been content to stay at home and lie in bed, nursing a cup of cocoa. But the wall clock was insistently proclaiming "You're late," and with a glance at the calendar, she arose and dressed halfheartedly.

"Tough night, dear?" a sympathetic voice called as Minerva quietly Banished pins into her hair to hold her bun in place. When she'd first acquired a wizarding mirror, she'd wished she hadn't. It was quite disturbing to quickly glance at her reflection as she prepared for the day, only to be met with "You've a hair crooked, dearie -- there, that's better" or "Ah, yes, you're sure to catch a handsome beau looking like that!" But every time she'd moved to replace it, something had stopped her. She'd purchased the mirror at a negligible price from a bookstore going out of business, who'd received it from the owner's bank vault at Gringotts. Something of the store's comfortable and truthful nature and immense air of knowledge -- Ernest Scribe's shop had always been her favorite -- had seemed to transfer even to this bit of wood and glass. Minerva had soon named the mirror Olivia and even called on her sizable experience in times of trouble.

She nodded in response, securing the last hair. 

"Well, best go to work and try to forget about it, whatever it was. Have a good day, lovey -- you look beautiful."

Minerva took Olivia's advice and spent the day in the welcome quiet of the Ministry library. Arabella wasn't there -- the Figgs' Christmas party was scheduled for that night, and she had stayed at home to prepare. Minerva usually would have missed her cheerful talk, but she was glad of the chance to be alone, surrounded by a forest of ebony bookshelves, losing herself in ancient texts on Animagi and Arithmancy.

Wanting only to stay home by the cozy fire with a book, Minerva considered avoiding Arabella's party. But it would lead to awkward questions and lose her the opportunity to meet more Order members, so she Apparated out of her apartment and into Arabella's home.

Once she arrived, she was glad to have escaped her flat, where the letter's presence was almost suffocating. Arabella's house was stuffed with mismatched armchairs and crocheted doilies; a few cats wound their ways around Minerva's feet; a fire crackled merrily in the grate. A bare evergreen was crowded in amongst the furniture, awaiting decoration later in the evening. Minerva passed quietly among the guests, stopping only occasionally to exchange a few pleasantries.

Arabella and her husband were standing by the fire greeting guests. She waved Minerva over a few minutes later to be introduced. David Figg, a _Daily Prophet_ editor, was a tall, smiling man built like a string bean. He shook her hand firmly, and they chatted for a few moments before moving to the dining room to eat.

After a sumptuous feast -- Arabella had commissioned a wonderful group of house-elves to cook -- the guests sipped coffee and talked. Minerva was aware that she looked pale and was unusually quiet. She had considered keeping the news to herself -- so many witches and wizards were completely removed from the Muggle world that they wouldn't understand. But sitting in a cozy room, very full of delicious food, surrounded by friendly people, and somehow longing for reassurance, she burst out, "My brother enlisted yesterday."

Louise placed a gentle hand on her arm; Arabella made a sharp noise in her throat. The rest of the table muttered consoling words.

"Was he a -- Squib, then?" one woman asked delicately.

"No, a Muggle. He took after my father." A few whispers of "Silvia Gladstone's daughter," passed around the table.

"How'd your parents meet, anyway?" Louise asked. She was obviously trying to change the subject, but Minerva was grateful for the diversion. "Wizards and Muggles have so little chance to interact on a personal basis. I'm fascinated by their marriages." 

"Louise and her Muggles." Bilius laughed tolerantly. "Quite frankly, I'd like to hear as well -- if you don't mind telling us, that is?"

Minerva smiled. "No, not at all. It's one of the few stories I do know, actually -- I always feel like I'm disappointing people when they ask about my mum, but my dad loved to talk about this.

"My dad fought in the Great Muggle War, and, after it ended, he was working as a bank teller in London. That's sort of like being a Gringotts goblin. My mum was doing a bit of apothecary work with St. Mungo's. She had just gotten over being sick and wasn't supposed to Apparate while she was taking medicines, so she was walking home. When the rain started, she went into a little teashop and ordered something warm to drink -- I think she thought she was going to wait the storm out. She was all out of Muggle money when the waitress came by, though. 

"Dad had been sitting close by, and had apparently quite fancied her. He took a sickle -- called it 'funny foreign money,' he still has it -- and paid for her tea, and left. But she'd found him just as interesting, came back the next day, and saw him again.

"They kept meeting, and he proposed to her one day. She told him he was a witch, and asked if he'd mind marrying one. And he said, 'Silvie, I don't give a damn. I love you and I wouldn't care if you were a horned toad.' So they got married and moved to Muggleswick, and my mum went into the Ministry."

No one spoke for a few moments. 

"Do things always just happen to your family? Are you predisposed for adventure or something?" Arabella asked with a laugh. "If everyone's finished, I propose decorating the tree." There was a low murmur of assent.

Minerva had not decorated a wizarding Christmas tree for many years. The Gryffindor common room had once held a stately fir trimmed by the students, but that tradition had ended in her fourth year. She had hardly forgotten a single detail, though, and watched closely as Arabella drew a slow, careful design with her wand. As it moved, a golden light blossomed out of it, becoming solid and taking the shape she had traced. Soon a graceful golden star adorned the treetop.

After that, the other guests collected their wands, levitating delicate ornaments of all shapes, sizes, and colors to the branches. It was quite crowded, and Minerva accidentally waved her wand too quickly. Her emerald-colored tree hit a shining silver snowflake with a crash, and the star fell to the floor and shattered.

"Oh -- I'm sorry --" she gasped.

"And I liked that one, too." The owner of the slighted star, a good-looking man a little older than Minerva, grinned cheekily at her. "It's all right. No harm done -- well, not much, anyway. I'm Carl Whittaker, and you're..."

"Minerva McGonagall."

"Yes, I heard you talking tonight. I'm sorry about your brother. I'm sure he'll be fine."

Minerva resolutely swallowed the lump of misery that had somehow worked its way into her throat. To be offered pity by this complete stranger was almost unbearable. Angrily shoving her glasses towards her eyes, she blew her nose loudly. "Allergic to fir trees," she muttered.

He nodded astutely, showing no trace of realizing her little charade, and said, "Must be difficult at this time of year." A twinkle in his eye betrayed him, but he diplomatically changed the subject. "How do you know the Figgs?"

Minerva hesitated. Although there was no rule that the Order itself must be kept secret, she preferred not to mention it to recent acquaintances. "Arabella and I are working together."

"For Dumbledore, I presume? So am I." Carl moved his hand, revealing the golden ring Minerva knew so well.

"Yes -- I just started recently."

"David and I were at the _Time-Turner_ together, before Dumbledore approached me about working with the Order and David moved to the Prophet. I was a photographer." She nodded. "May I pour you some Butterbeer, Miss McGonagall?"

She smiled. "I suppose you may, Mr. Whittaker."

Minerva and Carl drank Butterbeer and talked for a long while before they were interrupted. They mostly discussed work -- Carl was doing research for the Order, and she was interested in a few of his theories. This triggered her memory, and she remembered a controversial article from _Transfiguration Today_ about a way to free Dementors from their dark natures -- written about a year ago by a certain C. Whittaker. 

"You're just the person we need!" she cried out with delight, outlining her dilemma. "Arabella and I have been working on the Animagus transformation. We're coming along fine, but we need a way to record the conversations we hear when we're spying with the Morsdrodars. Apparently Recording Charms don't transfer over when you take your animal form."

"I'll think on it," he promised. Just as he was beginning to ask her about her Animagus work, a short man with tufts of mousy hair approached them.

"Ah, Carl! Fancy a joint wager on the Wanderers' next match?"

"No thanks, Bert, my money's on Puddlemere. Olive Clarence broke both arms, haven't you heard? She won't be fully recovered by Saturday -- no hope to catch the Snitch there."

"Engles would win if Olive had six arms," said Minerva with a shrug. "He's simply too good to be allowed. Always was, even at Hogwarts -- I'd bet that only Dangerous Dai and Roderick Plumpton could've beat him. Maybe not even Plumpton, now that he's been retired for so long." 

"You saw Alexander Engles play Quidditch?" asked Bert in a strangled voice.

"I played against him. My first year playing -- his last. Ravenclaw was unbeatable for awhile, even if their Chasers left something to be desired."

"You played Quidditch?" Carl sounded nearly as shocked as Bert.

"Gryffindor Keeper and reserve Seeker for three years." She laughed. "And, speaking with that expertise, I must say that I think the Wanderers have no chance in the finals. It'll be the Bats for England or no one at all." 

"The Bats? You're batty," David Figg broke in; Louise was just behind him. The five sustained a lively conversation about Quidditch for nearly an hour, before Minerva thanked the Figgs, stepped into the fireplace, and traveled home.

She kept herself from misery the rest of the evening by briskly wrapping Christmas gifts. For her family, Minerva always managed to find objects with a few simple spells on them -- enough to make them useful, but not enough to attract attention. A new watch for her father, which never needed to be wound; a charmed sweater for her grandmother that would keep her warm on the coldest Glasgow nights; an ordinary set of handkerchiefs for her brand-new uncle, who understood the wizarding world even less than the rest of the family. She had even managed to find some precious nylon stockings -- made more precious by a No-Run Charm -- for the newlywed Aunt Betty.

Tying a neat bow on that, her hands lingered briefly on the scarf she'd bought for Benny. She'd found it in Diagon Alley after lunch and had bought it on impulse, knowing that nights on the front could get cold. The scarf was thick red wool -- quality material, expensive even in peacetime -- with a general safety spell woven into it.

She had liked the scarf on sight; the charm had made it irresistible. She'd had a few qualms -- after all, she'd sworn not to help Benny with magic -- but excused herself, repeating that it was meant to protect against mishaps, not bullets. He would never know it was there.

Bundling the scarf into a box, Minerva wrapped the package busily. Carrying all of her presents, she Apparated to the Central Owl Post station in Diagon Alley. Three large barn owls took the packages, soaring out of sight into the cold December air.

***

Christmas passed, and Minerva threw herself into her work with greater fervor than ever before. As the New Year continued, both Muggle and wizarding wars intensified. Grindelwald's death toll rose; wizards traveled with a hand always on their wands; Order members visited large events, trying to ensure safety. A rumor circulated that the Order was to perform this duty at the Quidditch World Cup. Minerva hoped it was true, but also reminded herself that people claimed the Chudley Cannons would be playing for England.

She became friends with Carl -- now that she knew him, they managed to run into each other frequently in the library, often going to Diagon Alley for lunch at the same time. She didn't let these outings interrupt her work, however; the date set for the Animagus transformation was approaching more quickly than she would have liked, and March seemed to be just around the corner.

Minerva and Arabella had three-hour sessions with Myrna Thorpe daily, as she taught them the structure of the difficult Arithmancy equations; the principles of the scrying; the charms they would need to assure a successful transformation. Whenever they complained about the work -- which was rare for Arabella and rarer for Minerva, Myrna would silence them with a long, hard look. Minerva practiced the stare in front of the mirror sometimes, storing it away for the end of the war and her teaching career.(

She occasionally woke in the night, muttering about variables; she had been a good Arithmancy student at Hogwarts and now wished that she had been a better one. The equations to determine the parameters of the spell were one of the two most difficult parts of the process, excluding the transformation itself. Arabella was performing the other task -- the scrying. 

The potion boiled quietly on a small, ever-burning flame in a downstairs chamber of the Order headquarters. Minerva was careful to check it daily, but it seemed to need little attention -- only a month to boil until it was steeped and ready for drinking.

Arabella completed the scrying on a Friday morning in mid-March. Minerva was allowed to watch part of the process through a Seeing-Glass, a mirror that showed images from another room. Scrying was one of the most advanced and most accurate varieties of Divination, used only in the most complex spells. The Order's scry-chamber was octagonal; each panel on the wall contained a large mirror. The floor of the room was a pool of clear water. Four bridges extended across it in a cross-shape. Where they met was a large circular platform, holding a stone bowl of silvery liquid.

Arabella was seated in front of that bowl, gazing intently into it. The liquid swirled quickly, so that any patterns that might have appeared were meaningless. Occasionally, it would turn more slowly, and as the motion stopped, a blurred picture would appear. But it always vanished too quickly for anything but the shape of a face to be recognizable.

After Minerva had sat, motionless, for over two hours, the liquid moved slower and slower -- then stopped altogether, forming a silvery, glass-like surface. Not taking her eyes off the basin, she clenched her hands into fists, willing something -- anything -- to happen.

As the surface of the fluid slowly turned darker, a face appeared. Craning her neck slowly -- any sudden movement, she felt, might endanger the spell -- Minerva recognized the head. It was Arabella's. While she watched, the face gradually faded -- she managed not to cry out in despair -- and the material swirled briefly in the opposite direction, then stopped, revealing the figure of a calico cat.

Minerva choked back a shout of laughter mixed with a sigh of relief as the surface swirled again. It moved sluggishly for perhaps half an hour before darkening, this time showing Minerva's face.

It was a good likeness, Minerva thought as the liquid rolled -- her black hair piled high atop her head, her gray eyes snapping. As she watched, the image turned seamlessly into that of a gray and black-striped tabby, with markings around its eyes to match her spectacles.

Arabella stood up, her face ashen. Minerva saw her mouth "_Finite Incantatem_," then twist her ring and vanish -- only to appear next to Minerva. "Meow," she muttered with a tired laugh. "'Night, Min. I'm going home."

"You most certainly are not," said Myrna. "In that state, you're barely fit to walk, let alone Apparate. You'd splinch yourself before you were out of the building. I'm giving you a potion for dreamless sleep and you're staying in the Order infirmary tonight."

Arabella nodded meekly.

"A cat," Minerva murmured, stretching her cramped legs as she prepared to Apparate home. "That's all right then."

Myrna smiled. "The potion needs just a few more days. Now go home and rest."

Cats ambled their way through Minerva's dreams that night. 

***

She spent one more week finishing the equations while the potion boiled away in a Ministry lab. On the fifth day, it turned a deep crimson.

On the sixth day, Myrna owled her. 

__

The potion is ready.

Minerva checked her last Arithmancy equation, suddenly nervous. She had been looking forward to the transformation for months, but with it looming ahead of her, she was suddenly and dreadfully panicked. Any mistake on her part could not only kill her, it could kill Arabella as well. And all the people whose lives they might save through their spying -- it was a feeling similar to the one she'd experienced before her conversation with Churchill; the feeling that the lives of hundreds -- maybe thousands -- of people depended on her.

She took a deep, steadying breath. They _would_ succeed. They could not fail -- she had worked too hard and too carefully. Everything would be fine.

The actual transformation would take place on the last day of March. The day before was brisk but beautiful, and more than a hint of spring was in the air, but Minerva hardly noticed. The clocks ticked relentlessly as she solved her equations again and again... continued their noise as she carefully noted and practiced the sixteen different charms required to make the spell succeed... seemed to speed up as Arabella mixed a simple pain-killing potion to safeguard themselves during the first change.

Myrna checked their work carefully, and found no mistakes. The equation parameters had been calculated; the warding spells were cast to contain and focus the power of the first spells; tests on the potion showed that it was safe.

She finally nodded. "Good job, girls. Take tomorrow morning off and return at seven o'clock in the evening."

Minerva couldn't sleep that night. She tossed and turned for hours, finally opening her window to get fresh air into her flat. Even a long, smooth flight over London couldn't calm her. She was on the verge of casting a Somulus Charm when she remembered that it could affect her mental processes throughout the next day, and finally settled for a cup of tea containing a single drop of sleeping potion.

She awoke early the next morning and breakfasted in Diagon Alley, then stayed there throughout the day. She wasn't happy anywhere, though -- the peace of Flourish and Blotts seemed monotonous; the bustle of the Leaky Cauldron, intrusive. Her only respite came in meeting Carl, who solemnly presented her with a reassuring grin and a sprig of catnip.

When she returned home to change clothes, her stomach twisting with nerves, there was a letter waiting for her. It was addressed in Benny's slanting hand, on the strange paper they used in the military. She grabbed at it greedily. Letters from Benny were rare, although she wrote him every week. They always came by Muggle post, bearing odd foreign stamps with large parts blacked out. Minerva customarily cast a Revealing Charm to show the rest of the letter, then inked the black parts back in herself before putting the letter in a special box.

__

25 March 1944

Dear Minnow,

Thanks for the letters! And thanks again for the scarf. Nights get cold out here -- I love having something warm.

You didn't cast a spell on it or something, did you? It never gets torn or dirty, even when my uniform's stained. And another funny thing -- a piece of shrapnel was coming right for me the other day, but it just missed me by inches. Couldn't have killed me -- it was going for my arm -- but I might have been out of commission for a while. But if it's enchanted, I doubt it's your fault, and a little luck doesn't hurt in wartime.

It's rainy here, and the Germans are always flying over. They got Jim last week. We went through training together, and I ended up burying him without a stone. The rest of us are watching our backs -- and watching each other's.

They say something is going to turn the tide soon, but no one knows what. Even if I did, I couldn't tell you. Sorry, Min. I hope it does. I want to go home and be an electrician and eat Aunt Wanda's cake again.

Well, it's pretty wet and muddy here. I'm envying you by your warm fire, and thinking about you. Curse any Nazi who might come near you -- give him your worst for me.

Love, 

Benny

Minerva read the letter once, then carefully re-inked the censor's thick black lines. When she finished and folded the letter carefully, her nervousness had been replaced by steely resolve.

Men like Benny were fighting -- and dying -- every day, for people they never knew. She, Minerva McGonagall, would use her talent where she could. She'd do it for Benny, stuck in the cold and mud of a foreign land.

With a white face and a pounding heart, but feeling more determined than ever, she twisted her Order ring and arrived at the headquarters.

She found her way to the large, empty room where they had cast the wards last night: Minerva was already there and Arabella was just arriving. The cauldron of _Mutaebestia_ was there as well, with two roughly hewn wooden cups. Arabella scooped both full of the blood-red liquid and reached into her pocket for a small vial containing the final catalyst. Dripping a bit into each, she handed one to Minerva.

They drank. The potion tasted terrible, but it had to be swallowed in one gulp -- Minerva's insides turned icy, then fiery -- and suddenly, she felt nothing except the same iron determination. She was going first. Stepping onto the floor, she quickly drank the painkilling potion.

She heard Arabella's voice, as if from far away; but louder than anything was her own as she pointed her wand at herself and carefully intoned, "_Formus Animagi_!" 

For one terrible second, she was afraid nothing would happen. But then a crimson light burst from her wand and shot towards her hear -- her robes melded with her skin, which twisted, then shrunk -- it was a queer sensation, but she felt no pain. And then, before she had time to cry out in awe or surprise, she was a cat.

It was the most incredible feeling of her life; being herself, yet not herself. Her senses were heightened -- she smelled traces of the potion, of what Arabella had eaten for dinner, of the chalk they had used to draw the warding diagrams on the floor. In the dim light of the room, she could see for miles. Her body felt sleek and powerful as she walked to the edge of the wards, relishing the feeling of the floor under her nimble paws. She batted at a spot in the air, then gave Arabella a cheerful meow.

The next part was the most difficult -- a spell without words or wand, using only the strength of her magic and her will. She thought, _hard_, about becoming a human -- she heard a small _pop_ -- and she was standing in the middle of the wards, on two feet that suddenly felt large and clumsy.

She was glowing as she took her place outside the circle.

"It's special, isn't it?" asked Myrna, smiling with understanding. "So few people have experienced it -- and yet it's still the most wonderful feeling in the world." Minerva nodded. 

"_Formus Animagi_!" Arabella cried, her voice quavering a bit -- and a calico cat sat in her place. Like Minerva, she walked to the edge of the wards; ran her tongue across her small nose; twitched a whisker; and then was human again.

"Try it once more," Myrna said. "You shouldn't need the spell. Just _think_ the words in your head, the way you did in your cat form -- and it should work." They both changed, then reversed it, until she smiled and nodded. "Good work, girls. Dumbledore wants you to report to him tomorrow morning."

After Myrna had vanished, a gray tabby cat slipped out of the building and walked silently into the night. 


	4. The Return to Muggleswick

****

Chapter Four

__

The Return to Muggleswick

A week later, Minerva had decided that the Order of the Phoenix involved a lot of waiting. The Animagus transformation, finally completed, made her feel as if she wanted to be _doing_ something with it. Prowling the tops of buildings and drinking saucers of cream was all very well, of course, in its own way, but the Morsdrodars continued their reign of terror, and she detested feeling useless.

Dumbledore had talked to her the morning after the transformation, informing her that she would soon begin her work as a spy. First, however, they needed to make some necessary arrangements--registering her with the Ministry as an Animagus and a spy, so that, in the event of a raid, she would be treated gently; instructing her on how to pose with her partner-Auror; and trying to find a recording spell that would transfer during her change of form. They had made little progress on the latter. Carl was experimenting with a few potions, but nothing had yielded any results. Until that was complete, nothing else could be done.

She was restless, that was the problem. She still researched in the library; the reading still interested her, but it seemed to have lost its purpose. Order members were undercover, spying, putting themselves in danger -- and she was reading _If Quills Could Talk: A History of Dictaquills _and _Play It Again: Recording Spells over Time._

All in all, Minerva was glad of a diversion when she returned home in an April shower to find a letter waiting. She didn't recognize the owl -- an ordinary barn owl with gray markings, found at any post office -- but the envelope was cheap Muggle paper rather than parchment. It was from her father.

"Silvia's Muggle man" had always been quite popular in the wizarding world. After she died, her name gave him a certain status. Tom, the young barkeeper at the Leaky Cauldron, let Ewan have a drink when he visited London; Jon, who worked in Hypurb Alley, Glasgow, did the same. He rarely visited the wizarding world, although the entrance to Hypurb Alley was quite close -- the memory of his lovely wife, and her untimely demise, kept him away. However, letters to Minerva were always sent from the Glasgow Owl Post office.

_Dear Minerva_, the letter read,

_Thank you for the Christmas presents -- they're coming in pretty handy. Hope all is well in London. I worry about you, my girl, with all the bombs._

I'm writing because Whitby Burns is to be rented at last. You know that when we moved to Glasgow, I never sold the Muggleswick place. Well, there's no reason for me to keep it anymore. A lovely young couple from London is going to rent it -- I can't tell if they're of your_ sort or not._

There are a few loose odds and ends lying about downstairs, which I'll have the cleaning woman take care of. The attic is still filled with boxes, though, and I was wondering if you could come up and help me by cleaning them out. I can't do much lifting anymore, as my back's gone bad, and you would know more of what to do with your mother's things anyway. Any time you want to come is fine. I assume you can unlock the door, and I'm sure you can still recognize the place.

Take care of yourself!

Your loving Dad

Minerva threw some Firetalk Powder into the fireplace and stuck her head in, yelling, "Arabella Figg!"

Arabella emerged from her bedroom and into Minerva's line of vision. "Yes, Min? Here, have a macaroon, I just made some."

"No thanks, I just ate. Arabella, would you like to see Muggleswick?"

Arabella laughed. "I love that name, you know. When are you going?"

"Tomorrow? Maybe we'll wait until Saturday, though. Is David home yet? I need to ask him something about Dictaquills."

"Home? Minerva, dear, it's _only_ six-thirty," Arabella scoffed. "He's a _newspaperman_. The Prophet goes to press at eight o'clock -- he would be home by nine, but he has to cover a Ministry press conference."

Minerva nodded. "Well, let him know about this, too. I thought I'd ask Carl as well -- and Louise would _love_ to see a place called 'Muggles'wick. You wouldn't have to help me work -- I'm cleaning out boxes -- but I thought we could take a picnic lunch, and afterwards the Bats-Cannons match is at Shiney Row, or you could all Apparate home."

"Right. I'll see you on Saturday morning, then."

***

The next day brought beautiful weather. Minerva, David, Louise, Arabella, and Carl Ported to Edinburgh from Diagon Alley, then Apparated to Muggleswick

Whitby Burns was a small stone cottage that seemed to ramble out in all directions. Minerva had not seen it since she was very young, but the house had not changed much since the day, sixteen years ago, when her heartbroken father had taken himself and his two young children to Glasgow.

The window-boxes no longer overflowed with flowers, and the windows above them were dirty, but Minerva had the odd feeling that her former life was frozen inside, and that it would take only her hand on the doorknob to reawaken it; that if she opened the door, her mother would be there, her Ministry royal-blue robes and fireproof Potions apron now protecting her from food as she cooked dinner -- that at any moment, her father would enter, coming back from work -- that Benny would be a baby again, teething enthusiastically and playing with moving figurines of winged horses -- even that she would find her younger self in the backyard, skimming above the grass on a toy broomstick.

Shaking her head to clear it, Minerva cast Alohomora on the door and entered. The interior was dusty; a few Muggle appliances rusted inside. Resolving to clean it up before lunch, Minerva opened a door and ascended two flights of rickety stairs, then emerged through a creaky trapdoor into the attic.

It was mostly empty; the room had been cleaned out when they left. A neat stack of cardboard boxes stood in the corner, along with an old-fashioned Hogwarts trunk.

It was to the latter that Minerva headed, effortlessly casting _Alohomora_ and lifting the lid open. Most of the things inside dated from long after her mother's Hogwarts days. On the very top were bottles of potions, neatly labeled; books of potions recipes; notebooks filled with research. Beneath that were books on werewolves, lists of the uses of wolfsbane, even entire tomes on the plant itself. Minerva bundled the books into a box to give to Elspeth and placed the potions in a smaller bag for the Order. Carl had seized the research notebooks, flipping through pages of information on werewolves and recordings of potions -- all failures.

"Hmm... interesting. _Subject nearly died due to overdose of wolfsbane. Will not be used in future..._ _Potion had no effect whatsoever... Potion caused subject to change to werewolf form in moonlight, no matter the phase of the moon._ They must have had a hard time undoing that one. _Potion extended transformation._ Now here's a bizarre one: _Negligent amounts of moly appeared to excite the wolf. No other side effects except spillage of potion transmitted any sounds subject heard_. Long-distances -- through a potion -- David, tell me how Dictaquills work again, quick!"

"The feathers of the quill are charmed to transmit sounds around them onto paper."

"Could this charm be -- _modified_?" Carl asked, his voice rising with excitement.

"Sure -- in fact, it already has. Yellow Press came out with the Quick-Quotes-Quill a few years back -- marketed entirely to scandalmongers. The actual spell's pretty versatile -- in fact, I think the QQQ uses a potion."

Carl grabbed Minerva's arm and twirled her around. "Minerva, I think we've really got it this time! Your mum put us onto something! Dave, would you Apparate to the Prophet and get me as many Dictaquills as they can spare? I'm going to the Edinburgh potions center. We've got something here, we really have!" He spun her once more, then Apparated.

Minerva watched him go, her heart stuck somewhere between joy that Carl had an idea and dread that it would turn out, like the others, to be only a red herring. Shrugging and crossing her fingers for luck, she continued through the trunk.

A marriage certificate and two birth certificates -- _Minerva Elizabeth McGonagall, Benjamin Angus McGonagall_ -- were next. Under them was a set of dress robes and a corsage, probably from the seventh-year graduation ball; then a set of schoolbooks and a velvet-bound green volume, a diary. Minerva opened it to find only blank pages -- presumably enchanted -- and set it aside. At the very bottom of the trunk was a crinkled parchment letter:

_Dear Miss Gladstone,_

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry...

"Oh, Minerva, look!" Arabella called, holding up a fat book covered with burgundy-colored leather. "Photos!"

Minerva grabbed at it eagerly. The pictures inside were color-charmed, starting with a small girl in Hogwarts robes boarding the Express -- playing Quidditch -- as a Ravenclaw prefect. Then photos of the wedding -- Silvia in long white robes, her cheeks flushing prettily beneath her chestnut hair; Ewan in an ordinary Muggle tuxedo, nodding bashfully. Then a radiant young woman with a baby, followed by snapshots of Minerva's childhood. The last was of a smiling young girl pulling a baby boy by one hand -- Minerva with Benny, shortly before their mothers' death.

Laying the album aside, Minerva went to help Louise, who was happily sorting through a box of Muggle odds and ends. Just then, David and Carl Apparated.

"We've done it, Minerva! We've done it!" Carl yelled, running over to her and brandishing a piece of paper.

David had Arabella in a tight hug, then danced her around the room. She laughed and disentangled herself. "Would it be too much, my dears, to ask exactly _what_ all this is about?"

"We've found a way for you to spy," David said breathlessly. "Well -- I don't understand all the mechanics, it was really Carl's idea --"

"David started the whole thing," Carl said, waving a hand carelessly and knocking a wooden crate over. "Without his Dictaquill information --"

"You worked on the Prophet desk too, Carl, you know just as much about them -"

"Would you both quit being so damned _modest_ and tell us what happened!" Arabella exclaimed.

"Well," Carl began, "the exact way this failed potion worked was that it didn't _stop_ the transformation to the wolf, or stop the wolf from harming people, so it didn't fulfill its purpose. But it was better than many of the others -- it didn't really _hurt_ the wolf, either. As a matter of fact, it was pretty close to success, but no one seemed to be able to figure out where to go next. Anyway, other than the moly exciting the wolf, what this potion did was accidentally create the ability to transmit whatever the wolf was hearing over long distances, wherever the potion was spilled. We think it's because there was a bit of Apollyn extract in there -- it's the same stuff that's used for Floo powder. Bizarre side affect, but stranger things have happened -- basically, it affected the wrong senses. We've decided that it needs wolfsbane, but first someone needs to find a way to change the wolfsbane so that it doesn't harm the wolf, and I have no idea how that could be done."

Minerva nodded. 

"We figured that we could put the potion on a Dictaquill at the headquarters. You'd drink the potion before -- we'll run some tests to make sure it's okay. Potions transfer with you to the form -- the painkilling potion did, right? -- and as long as you don't stay longer than 24 hours, it should be fine."

Minerva gaped. "Carl! That makes sense!"

"Finally," said Arabella, "we can get some work done!"

There was an official meeting at Hogwarts a few days later to discuss it with Dumbledore. "Excellent work, Mr. Whittaker," he said. "When will it be complete?"

"Well, we thought we'd have to set up several quills, just in case," Carl answered. "It's not completely reliable, of course. Based on her records -- luckily, she left very clear ones -- it took Silvia about two months to brew that potion. With modern methods, it should take three weeks or so. Then we'll obtain and charm the parchment -- the whole thing should be ready within a month."

"Excellent. Cynthia Hemlock has run all the tests we needed on it -- it's perfectly safe for normal human consumption, you'll be fine. Sherbet lemon?"

Carl politely refused. "But this potion -- it just haunts me. Silvia was the greatest Potions genius in a century. If she'd taken it one step further -- if she'd experimented more with the wolfsbane --" He shook his head in frustration.

"After the war, Carl. After the war," Minerva murmured.

"Right. Well, I must be going, Professor -- the sooner we begin, the better."

"Good evening. I'll be seeing you shortly." Dumbledore paused. "Keep your eyes and ears open. We've heard murmurings that Grindelwald is on the move."

"Right. 'Evening. Good night, Minerva." Carl twisted his Order ring and disappeared.

"Minerva, I think I'll go ahead and give you all the information we have about the Morsdrodars. It's not a lot, but it should help. I must insist, however, that you stay within Hogwarts to read it. You're a competent young witch, but these are Dark forces beyond our imaginings. This information cannot fall into the wrong hands, or we are lost. I think the library will be the best place. But before you leave, I _must_ insist that you take a sherbet lemon."

Minerva shrugged and accepted. As she left, it melting in her mouth, Dumbledore called, "Again -- your name, please."

"Minerva Elizabeth McGonagall." Minerva didn't think before the words left her mouth -- and yet she hadn't taken a truth potion...

Smiling at the puzzled look on her face, Dumbledore handed her a piece of chocolate. Enchanted cocoa was easier to obtain than the Muggle variety, but the chocolate racks at Honeydukes had looked rather sparse. "Veritasweet," he said with a smile. "The Kanes concocted them for me. Not very strong, and easily overcome, but it has the element of surprise."

Minerva laughed as the chocolate melted in her mouth. Then, taking the folder by one hand, she exited Dumbledore's office and emerged in the corridors of Hogwarts.

Irma Pince, the new librarian, was a thin, pinched-looking woman. She didn't appear to be much older than Minerva, but she still looked menacing. Minerva settled herself into a chair behind the Restricted Section and rubbed her Order ring across the parchment binding.

The information contained was vast, but incredibly interesting. Minerva soon became absorbed in her reading. She learned that Grindelwald had once been Anders Grindelwald of Perth, Scotland; that he had been one of Hogwarts's top students and a Slytherin prefect, but after leaving Hogwarts he had vanished into Eastern Europe and consorted with wizards from Durmstrang and smaller schools, schools of the worst kind. Like so many Dark wizards, he had sacrificed himself for power and made others do the same -- whether by force or persuasion. He had begun his reign of terror in the place where he gained his power, killing Muggles and wizards from the Balkans, Greece, and Russia.

He had spent extensive time in Germany around the years of Minerva's birth, and took especial interest in an Austrian man called Adolf Hitler. The information was unclear as to this point, but it was believed he had made a bargain with the Muggle -- promising him "absolute power" by giving him a simple Persuasion Charm, in exchange for assurance that Hitler would torment Muggle-born wizards and witches. Then, returning finally to England, he gathered his "gang" of Hogwarts friends around him. Calling themselves the _Morsdrodars_, they persecuted Muggle-borns, friends of powerful Light wizards... anyone who might stop them from having absolute power.

More and more joined him. Wizards and witches -- and their governments -- were suffering from the same sorts of economic problems as Muggles were at that time, and the Ministry of Magic was too preoccupied with trying to improve the economy to notice the warning signs of the first truly powerful Dark wizard in over fifty years.

By the time an intelligent young employee managed to make his superiors see the approaching crisis (and was killed only a day later), it was too late. Grindelwald was unshakably in power, and the second great Muggle war was only a few months away from beginning.

The current missions against Grindelwald and the Morsdrodars were multifaceted. Spies -- like Minerva -- were dispatched, both to find out the names of future victims and the larger scope of future plans. Secret hospitals, staffed by completely trustworthy doctors and nurses, cared for those hurt by Grindelwald and tried to prevent general panic in the wizarding world. Diplomats and spies traveled to other countries threatened by Grindelwald, searching for the warning signs missed in England in the 30s. 

An entire department of the Ministry, officially named the Anti-Dark Operations Department but mostly called Ado, processed the information constantly received and also wrestled with the harder questions of wartime -- _which was more valuable, saving several lives or keeping their knowledge secret? Was Hitler their concern, or the Muggle governments? Where, exactly, was the defining line between the Muggle world and the wizarding one?_ Minerva shook her head, glad she was not working for this branch.

The information on Grindelwald's future plans was sketchy, to say the least -- few spies were trusted enough to be in the inner circle where such plans were made. That would be part of Minerva's job -- as a cat, she could go places human spies could not. They knew that his dreams became bigger -- he wished to use England, once conquered, as a starting point for the rest of the world. They knew that, like most Dark wizards, he was constantly searching for something, a sort of Philosopher's Stone, to lengthen his life or give him wealth. The other information was applicable to any Dark wizard -- wishing to torture Muggle-born and half-blood witches and wizards, whom he considered inferior (Minerva shivered); and increase his own wealth.

Closing the book, Minerva returned to Dumbledore's office, took another Veritasweet, and returned the papers.

"Meet me at the Headquarters on Friday morning," he said. "Pandora has returned from her last mission and it is time to begin your final training. Until then, study your handbook, review the ingredients in your kit, and get some rest. Pandora has spread the news that she is about to acquire a cat; we will register you as an Order agent with the MLES; and then you will begin."

When Minerva returned, she studied her seven-lock kit. She hadn't fully explored it since her first days in the Order -- now nearly six months ago.

"_Prometheus_," she whispered, and the lid sprang up. She remembered easily what the first layer contained -- her personal information, a bar of chocolate, the keys to the other layers. The second held basic medicinal potions, bandages, quills, and ink. The third layer contained a small Sneakoscope, a pocket Foe-Glass, and an emergency Portkey to the headquarters in case her ring broke. In the fourth was a few precious nourirs -- small stones that could be transfigured into nutritious food.

The fifth layer was entirely taken up by an Invisibility Cloak. The sixth held more potions -- mostly truth potions -- and a few charmed objects.

The seventh layer was the most valuable of all; the things enclosed were rarer than dragon bloodstones and were worth half the gold in Gringotts. Yet none of them, Minerva remembered, could block the Killing Curse; and she made herself remember that.

A bottle of phoenix tears, which could heal any injury. A rock that would emit phoenix song, when the bearer was in the darkest of all dark states of mind. A single, blood-red feather, tinged with orange -- powerful enough to cast a single spell for eternity. And unicorn blood, willingly given, enough to hold a person from the edge of death for perhaps an hour.

Closing the kit quietly, Minerva sat cross-legged on the floor of her room, trying to remember everything she had learned.

It was finally beginning.

***

Pandora was the only Order spy Minerva knew who was referred to only by her code name. (Minerva's was Athene, but was used only occasionally on missions. Dumbledore was Exploding Bonbon, a name of his own choosing.) It suited her, however, than any birth name would have. She was tall, with powder-white skin, large, honey-colored eyes, and dark hair that looked color-charmed. She was thin -- not attractively slender, but thin -- and seemed ageless. Minerva would have placed her age somewhere between thirty and fifty, but could give no other details.

Pandora had an air of enchanting and royal coldness, even with the people she knew, loved, and trusted. Even her smile revealed pointed teeth as she shook Minerva's hand.

"A pleasure to meet you, Miss McGonagall. Alastor and Albus say you show promise. I hope they are not mistaken."

Minerva's back was straight and she was forcing herself not to feel intimidated, but she didn't trust herself to smile. "For everyone's sake, I hope they aren't either," she replied. "I'm sure you will be wonderful to work with."

The two spent much of the day reading maps and charts, as Pandora re-explained the information the Order have gathered.

"I've spread word around the Morsdrodars that I'm getting a cat," she said with a grim smile. "You are anticipated. Lucky that it's kitten season; otherwise, two new cats would seem unusual. I think your friend's new 'owner' had an old cat die a natural death last week."

Minerva nodded. "I've seen the maps --" she ventured tentatively.

"Ah, yes." Taking a map from the stacks of parchment, Pandora smoothed it onto the table. Jabbing at various areas with a long, pointed nail, she began, "There's a byway to Knockturn Alley _here_ -- left, right, left, left again -- and you meet the others _here_. We Port to Grindelfestung -- that's the main meeting place -- and then Apparate home. You'll meet me at my house -- where do you live?"

"Close to the Ministry, in London. Off Myrrdin Road."

"All right." Taking a scrap of parchment, Pandora doodled a map. "I'm not far at all -- Diurn Alley, very close to the Portkey. Apparate there, and then we'll walk to the Portkey. You may want to practice Flooing in your Animagus form, though."

Minerva nodded. "Right."

"You've worked out the recording spells, I understand? Cats can usually just wander around." She pointed out the different parts of Grindelfestung on the map. "We _know_ there's a chamber just here, where the inner circle meets. If you're lucky, you can slip in there unseen." She set her teeth. "And as for Grindelwald -- Minerva, can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Why are you doing this, Minerva? I can tell that it's not what you want to do with the rest of your life. You're here, you'll work hard -- but there's no spirit in what you're doing. What makes you hate Grindelwald so much that you'll risk your life to end his reign of terror?"

Minerva hesitated. "I had to do _something_," she said. "What I really want to do is teach, and there aren't any openings. Dumbledore offered me the chance to do this, and I couldn't refuse. And then my brother joined up in the Muggle forces. He's off fighting Hitler, and -- and anything I do to make his way the slightest bit easier, I'd do gladly."

Pandora nodded, obviously thinking. "I never knew Dumbledore very well," she said with a smile. "I was a Slytherin, and I worked to play the part of the perfect one. I've wanted to be a spy, to work against the dark, since I was only nine or ten years old. And the first rule of warfare is _know thine enemy_. But then -- I graduated from Hogwarts, and I went to work in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and I met a man called Alexander Brunning. We fell in love, and we were about to get married. But Alexander had been traveling in the Balkans, and he knew the warning signs for Grindelwald. He finally got someone to believe him, to believe that there was a serious problem. He was killed that night. That's why I'm fighting against Grindelwald -- because it's what he would have wanted."

Minerva shivered. Pandora's intensity was scary at times. But before she could say anything, Dumbledore stuck his head into the room. "Minerva, may I have a word?"

She gladly followed him from the room. Pandora nodded curtly to the two of them.

"Minerva." He looked gravely at her, and his eyes no longer twinkled. "I am telling you this because it is important, and because I know it is something your Gryffindor heart will resist. When you are on the job, working against Grindelwald, the mission comes first. Pandora is in charge. In crises, her word is law. You must trust and obey her without hesitation; and you must not change orders to try to save others. They usually can help themselves. I hate the policy as well; I think human life should always come first. But in wartime, it is sensible. He who hesitates is lost. Pay no mind to anything else. Do you understand?

"The other, lighter things. You will find, once you start working here, that your schedule is very flexible. You will help with information processing during some days, but mostly your work will be at night, when the Morsdrodars meet. Stay rested. If you are catnapping during the meetings, the recording spell will still work, but it will be diminished. We're developing a schedule so that you won't always have to Floo to Pandora's apartment when the Morsdrodars are meeting. For now, take this." He handed her a small mirror. "Pandora will notify you on this when she hears from the Morsdrodars. Her face will appear, and it should be warm to the touch -- it may burn a little, I'm afraid. We haven't perfected the spell yet."

"Thank you, Professor. And I understand," replied Minerva.

"Be wary," he answered. "We suspect the next meeting will be on Thursday. Do not forget your instructions. Good evening."

"Good evening, Albus."

***

Thursday night found Minerva dining with Carl at the Leaky Cauldron when she felt something burn against her skin. "Ouch!" she exclaimed; then, when people turned to stare and Carl anxiously inquired if she was all right, she pulled him into the hallway.

"The Morsdrodars are meeting," she said quietly. "I have to run -- I'm sorry, Carl --"

"No matter," Carl replied quickly. His expression softened as she said, "Wish me luck, all right?"

"Be careful, Min. I mean it." He looked into her eyes and gently touched her hand, and fear choked her briefly. She didn't trust herself to speak, but only gave him a quick smile, then Apparated.

Reappearing in a grove near the Knockturn-Diagon Alley byway, she extracted the Recording Potion from her pocket and gulped it quickly, then transformed and padded on cat paws to the Portkey station. Pandora was already there, dressed in rich black robes and wearing elaborate makeup. 

"Come, Athene," she said, and Minerva jumped lightly up. Pandora held her and grabbed for the Portkey --

There was the familiar sense of being jerked along by something, and then they reappeared on the cold granite floor of a dark, tomb-like room. Other Morsdrodars, draped in the same black as Pandora, stood among them; Minerva could not smell Arabella's Animagus form, but other cats milled about the room, which seemed like the hall of an ancient fortress. The walls were dark stone with no windows. Torches, sticking starkly from them, provided a flickering, greenish light.

A large table stood in the center of the room. Minerva's hearing was good enough that she need not stand near; anyway, this job was Pandora's. The Morsdrodars, as if by unspoken consent, seated themselves at the table. A tall, thin man with a haggard face and shining gray hair stood at the head. His eyes glinted coldly in the dim light.

"We are missing one," he said quietly, and his voice was like frozen iron. "Young is not present. The master will not be pleased." 

He radiated a sense of evil, but Minerva had been sure he was not Grindelwald, and now she was proven correct.

"Where is he? Has he abandoned us? You all know the reward for a deserter." His teeth gleamed when he smiled.

"Young is... indisposed, Perkins," said a voice. "And you are not our master. You would do well to remember that."

Perkins shot an icy glare at the speaker. "I am still more powerful than you, Thorne, and _you_ would do well to remember _that_. How is he indisposed?"

"He is on a mission to that Muggle fool in Germany," Thorne responded. He moved slightly into the torchlight, and Minerva saw that he was a short man with wavy black hair. _Artour Thorne?_ she thought. Artour had been a few years ahead of her at Hogwarts, a Ravenclaw whom everyone thought would be better as a Slytherin.

"It has our master's approval, then. Jocaste, you have targeted more victims, correct?"

"The Ministry's system, once again, has failed," Jocaste replied. She was a large woman with a high, nasal voice. "The Newmans have been overlooked. Loyal to Dumbledore, Hufflepuffs to the core..."

"Their blood?" asked Perkins, as if he was thirsty for it.

"The woman is one of our sort, and the father is a purebred Muggle. The children are dirty half-bloods."

"Sickening," said another voice. "Really sickening. It's like marrying a beast. Someone needs to outlaw it."

It took every bit of Minerva's self-control to stop herself from springing into the face of the offender, claws out. If she had been human, she would have vomited. She had experienced, of course, the Slytherin prejudice against Muggle-borns and half-bloods; and she knew that only those with the prejudice exaggerated to the highest degree would want to become Morsdrodars, but the words still galled her. They worked their way through her fur-covered skin to her heart and smoldered there.

"And you have their location?" Perkins continued, as if that conversation had never happened.

"Here, sir." A bit of parchment zoomed into Perkins's hand.

"Excellent. Others?"

"The Kirkwoods, from Edinburgh," said a male Morsdrodar with a scratchy voice. "The girl is about 16. A Mudblood."

"Killiways, of Diurn Alley." Minerva nearly jumped. That was Pandora's voice. "Mudblood man and a half-blood woman. I'll take care of them."

A chill shot up Minerva's spine, and a gruesome thought crossed her mind. What happened to the known victims? Were they all saved -- and how was the Order of the Phoenix kept secret, if they were? And if they were not all saved -- she resolved to ask Pandora later.

"Good work. The Master will be much pleased." Perkins did not seem pleased in the slightest. "Business meeting dismissed."

This seemed to be a sort of cue for the Morsdrodars. Plates of food appeared on the table, the torches in the walls burned more brightly, and music began playing from somewhere. Pandora mingled among the others for a few moments, then worked her way over to Minerva.

"I said I was going to the loo," she whispered. "I don't have much time. No -- don't change -- it'll attract too much attention. This part of the meeting is like a big social. There's some drinking and talking, sometimes some dancing. But during this, the main few will slip away to plan operations. I don't know if you'll be able to make it into the chamber. I pushed a cat through there last week, and I don't think anyone noticed. If not, just try to listen outside the door. The three to watch are Perkins, of course, but he doesn't like this part of the meeting. And Jocaste, and Quimble -- he's the short man in the brown robes. There are others, but we know these three for sure.

"If I leave, don't worry about it. Just slip off into a corner. If you change quickly enough, you can twist your ring and be gone before anyone else is. And don't be bothered if you don't think you've found out anything today. It's your first time, after all."

Minerva wound around people's ankles, following other cats. She heard snatches of conversation, but it was mostly heated political debate and didn't seem to warrant attention. While she was trying to find Arabella, Jocaste slipped away.

Minerva swore to herself -- she'd botched the first assignment already! Trying to stay posted outside the entrance to the secret room, she could only hear fragments of discussion. 

"…the attempt on the Athena statue will be made next week…"

"…target the most valuable things… won't think we'll try for a … only arcane magical value…"

"… when it's gone… won't suspect us…"

"…just like ordinary art thieves."

_The Athena statue._ She shook her head, puzzled. The giant statue from the Parthenon was one of the wizard community's most prized treasures. But what would the Morsdrodars want with it?

Just then, she heard a pop, and Jocaste Apparated into the middle of the now almost-empty room. While she had been eavesdropping, many of the Morsdrodars had left.

Waiting until the remaining wizards were occupied with the food and drink once again, she then slipped into a badly lit corner of the room and changed quickly into her human form. Praying no one would detect the magic, she twisted her ring and was gone.

Her first assignment was over.


End file.
